


Light Tucked In Darkness

by HunterPeverell



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Because that's honestly stupid, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I'd like to see you be half as brave, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insecurity, Magic, No Ron Weasley Bashing, POV Ron Weasley, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Sad Ron Weasley, Self-Esteem Issues, The Ron Weasley Defense Squad, Time Travel, and i hate it, anyway, duh - Freeform, fight me, he's such a great character people, nice, sort of, the comments have basically turned into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 01:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: Ron is a Nobody compared to the people around him ... Or so he thinks.Included: Ron Wealsey, Newt Scamander, time Jumping, and minor afflictions of angsty character study.





	Light Tucked In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another story that I wrote and never posted. Enjoy!
> 
> Ron is fun to write. To counter this, Newt is _hard_ to write. Feedback on either is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Also, while I did have mmouse15 look this over, I'm not sure if all of the edits came through, so if you spot anything, please tell me!
> 
> Disclaimer: Soooooo not mine. If I had written Harry Potter ... wow, uh, if I slipped into the AU I might actually, literally explode. I'm not _that_ amazingly creative!

*

Ron had been Jumping for as long as he could remember. He just never brought it up. After all, how could he prove anything to anyone? No one would believe _he_ could do what he did. Ron barely believed it. He kept silent, he stayed quiet, he dealt with it alone.

_After all, no one wanted to know about what stupid Ron Weasley could do._

*

Ron was overshadowed.

He felt this was a defining characteristic of his person. He was overshadowed by his brothers, by his best friends, by his House mates—even by his parents. 

Gits like Malfoy could say whatever they wanted, but when Ron thought about the love that passed between his parents, love that they handed out freely and equally, he felt so, so selfish in comparison.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? Compared to everyone else, Ronald Bilius Weasley looked like an unintelligent, unimpressive, selfish bastard. He was painfully aware of this fact from a very young age, and it was a fact that only strengthened after he met Harry and Hermione when he was eleven.

He compared himself to others all the time, and always found himself wanting.

His father had found happiness, in his passion and in the family he truly, honestly loved.

His mother gave and gave and gave and smiled so bright it battered away the shadows.

Bill had been a Prefect and was off having positively magical adventures every day.

Charlie was a literal _dragon tamer._ There would be nothing cooler.

Percy had planned every single aspect of his life and had ambition to rival Icarus.

Fred and George were funny and popular and had each other through the thick and the thin.

Ginny was a powerhouse who had survived terrible things and came out stronger.

Hermione was the smartest person Ron knew, and cared so much for other people, it sometimes hurt his heart.

And Harry.

Harry, who was famous and rich, but who was, more importantly, caring and kind and brilliant in every sense of the word, who fought You-Know-Who not because it was his “destiny,” but because he was an honest-to-Merlin good person who wanted to make the world better somehow.

And he had chosen Ron to be his friend.

Ron still didn’t understand that decision.

Well, they were eleven when they first met. Harry was desperate for a friend, and Ron was quite willing to get to know the bashful, shy kid who shared his candy with him, to know the kind child beneath the fame. But they were kids and Harry was lonely and scared and nervous, so their little blossoming friendship was to be expected. He understood that part, why their friendship started. 

What he didn’t understand was why Harry had _stayed_ his friend, why they hadn't drifted apart like so many do.

But he never said anything, never asked, never commented. He tried to be himself, he tried to be there for his friends, and he did his best to hide his insecurities from them.

They fought and they bled and the confusion and pain built up in Ron's chest until he felt as if he was about to explode.

In the end, though, he just kept quiet.

*

Ron blinked, eyelids slow and heavy.

He blinked again, and the black-white-grey blur settled down to a grimy inn he didn’t recognize in the slightest. A giant was cooped up behind one booth and was talking to a goblin, their smiles all teeth. A fairy zipped over his head and landed next to a bent over old wizard whose beaky nose and watery eyes lent him a suspicious air. The walls were pitted with dents and slash marks, the air smelt of a foul combination of cigar smoke and body odor, and liquids of dubious legality were passed around, held high on trays or shoved over the bar.

All in all, it was a place his mother might faint at the sight of.

Ron saw him immediately, hunched over his leather-bound journal and writing in his usual messy scrawl.

Ron started making his way over, ignoring how people walked right through him. It used to freak him out when he was younger, the way no one could see him, hear him, or touch him, but he’s seventeen now and it doesn’t bother him like it used to.

Besides, he has other things to worry about.

He slid into the seat across from the older man and clasped his hands, waiting. The other man bobbed his head in acknowledgement of Ron’s presence, his curly brown hair swaying slightly with the movement, and finished writing the last sentence. Ron continued to peer around, taking note of a few more unsavory patrons and listening to the quiet music.

It was here, in this unknown, dirty bar that could be anywhere in the world, that Ron finally felt like he could relax slightly. If just for a moment.

The quiet sound of a pen being set down drew his attention back to the table and he found his friend’s wide blue eyes peering back at him.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asked quietly.

“I did something terrible,” Ron replied and gazed longingly at Newt’s untouched drink.

“Go ahead,” Newt said, following Ron’s gaze. Ron found himself unconsciously copying Newt’s head bob as he reached out and grabbed the cup. The patrons nearest to them ignored Newt and the floating cup—from their point of view, it would look as if Newt was speaking to himself—with an ease that told Ron they were used to wizards mumbling to themselves. It was that sort of place.

The drink burned his throat going down, but Ron swallowed nonetheless. He set the cup down, grimacing, but now had flames dancing in his stomach and settled back in his chair, looking at Newt, who was still watching him.

“You remember on my last visit I said I was going on a trip?” Ron asked.

“I do remember that,” Newt said.

“Well.” Ron heaved a sigh. “I did, and I abandoned them.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry?” Newt had gained that lost look, the one that told Ron they were approaching aspects of humanity and emotions that were quite out of Newt’s depth to empathize with.

“I think I just need you to listen,” Ron offered, and Newt’s relieved head bob encouraged Ron to continue.

“We were out of touch with people for months,” Ron began. “I’ve never had that before. I missed my family, I worried about their safety. I let my guard down and I let all the—the _things_ I’ve been pushing down for years come up and spew out and you know I’m not exactly tactful.”

Newt offered him a small smile. “Didn’t Hermione once compare your emotional range to that of a teaspoon?”

Ron groaned through a smile, and Newt’s bashful grin settled something in Ron’s mind, bringing him some small semblance to peace.

“I mean, we could spend hours here talking about my flaws,” Ron said.

“I’m sure we could do that for me, too,” Newt said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but, I said some pretty terrible things. I mean, _really_ terrible things. Things I don’t think I can come back from.”

“But you can always try,” Newt said. “Did I tell you I was recently in New York?”

Ron shook his head, taking another small sip of his drink.

“I got into a lot of trouble.” Newt ducked his head awkwardly, scrubbing at the back of his head. “At one point, I needed information that would save lives, but in return, I had to give up Picket.”

“No,” Ron breathed.

Newt’s face sagged down. “I wasn’t going to let him keep Picket, of course I wasn’t. But we _needed_ that information and I … Picket still isn’t happy with me. But I’m not going to give up trying to win his trust back. Picket is my _friend._ I’d do anything for him.”

Ron thought about Harry and Hermione. His last clear memory was a little bit into their camping trip, and he remembered how Harry had tripped and landed in a pile of leaves as he searched for mushrooms. Before the three of them knew it, they were throwing leaves at each other and laughing within to confines of their protective bubble.

It was Ron’s last happy memory before the consuming anger and resentment had settled in.

“You can do it,” Ron said. _I can do it._ “Friends are worth it.”

Newt’s lips dipped upwards. “They are.”

*

Ron and Newt had been friends since Ron was five and Newt was seventeen. The age discrepancy was certainly an issue, but Ron was young and eager to talk to someone who wasn’t a member of his family and was used to creatures since, as he told Newt with a serious expression, “My broddur Charwie wikes ‘em.”

Newt had no idea what to do with the small, redheaded child who had suddenly appeared in his office. At that point, Newt had already been expelled from Hogwarts and was working for the Ministry, feeling as though his soul was slowly being sucked out by an invisible, intangible Dementor.

Ron, though, didn’t mind that Newt wasn’t good with children (or human beings in general.) He already had a mother and father and family. He just wanted a friend that was his very own, and seemed more than content to let Newt show him his Bowtruckles and Nifflers, his blue eyes wide and serious as Newt rambled about all the fantastic creatures he knew about.

It took Newt a little bit to realize some powerful magic was at work. The small child who had introduced himself as “Won Weasley” wasn’t in any of the archives, and the only “Weasley” Newt could find was a Septimus Weasley, who worked in the Animagus Registry on Level Two.

It took Newt a little bit longer to realize that when Ron was with him, no one could see, hear, or touch him.

Newt began considering it, paging through the enormous tomes of spells and creatures that resided within the library archives of the Ministry.

He could find nothing.

What he found instead was an incredible lack of information on many beasts. The pages on Horklumps was completely wrong, and the Bowtruckles had so few pages Newt felt personally insulted. He began compiling his own research, and it was when he had just finished sketching a drawing of a Mooncalf (from memory) that Augustus Worme, a friend of Newt’s boss, happened to wander into the archive and spot Newt.

When Ron (who was by then eight and already dull eyed at his unexciting future) next landed in front of Newt, Newt was in Kathmandu searching for a Demiguise.

*

Ron knew he wasn’t brilliant, he had known for a long time. He went aboard the Hogwarts Express intending to keep his head down and instead found himself with the most famous person in the Wizarding World (aside from, perhaps, Dumbledore) wanting to be his friend.

Throughout his years of Hogwarts, Ron would always wonder _why_ Harry and Hermione had befriended stupid, useless, boring Ronald Weasley.

Ron knew that his Jumping was unusual, but since he didn’t know where to begin to look for it in books and didn’t want to involve Hermione, who would surely make his one special thing sound completely normal, it left him with figuring it out on his own.

He had started Jumping when he was five. It had felt like a pressure steadily applied to the base of his skull, just a degree shy of being painful, and when he had next blinked, he had been in a cramped office filled with papers and empty cages and one startled man who hesitantly introduced himself later as Newt Scamander.

Ron figured out that when he came back to his time (he hadn’t realized he time traveled until his dad took him into work one day when he was seven and he had wandered away in search for Newt, traversing the familiar corridors of the Ministry, only to be told that no “Newt Scamander” worked at the Ministry. It was then he looked Newt up in the registry and realized that the only Newt Scamander recorded lived half a century earlier and wrote a book on magical creatures. Ron borrowed the book from Charlie’s collection and read it all the way through that night.) no time had passed in his present. For the people talking to him at the time when he Jumped, it merely looked as though he had spaced out for a second, lending to his already buffoonish persona.

Ron tried not to let it get to him.

(It got to him.)

Ron, however, had a friend who didn’t think he was stupid, even though he was so much older than Ron. Newt thought that Ron was a brilliant chess player, and together the two of them would play. Ron didn’t beat Newt until he turned eight, and then Newt started giving him books to read about chess while Newt worked on his book. They’d read and write together in companionable silence until Ron once more disappeared back to his time, whenever that happened.

Newt didn’t understand people, really, and Ron didn’t have very much patience. Their friendship wasn’t perfect, but they found common interests (which usually ended up being beasts—Newt was a fantastic, passionate teacher and Ron hoped one day he could help people be just as passionate about their interests as Newt was because that? That was what happiness looked like.)

(Ron didn’t know what made him happy.)

They argued, sometimes, when Ron was being thick-headed and Newt was being insolent and they wouldn't talk, or Ron would storm out of the room, but the next time Ron returned, he'd make an effort to apologize and explain why he had been upset. Newt would accept his apology and would offer one of his own. Ron would make sure to then ask him about his beasts, and Newt's eyes would light up in a way they never did of humans, but he'd offer Ron a small, soft smile that told Ron Newt really had forgiven him.

No, it wasn't perfect. But they made it work.

*

"Hey," Ron greeted Newt, swinging down into the chair in front of Newt's desk. Newt looked up, his startled expression already fading.

"Ron," Newt said. "H-How are you?"

Ron smiled at him. "I'm good, I'm really good, actually."

"Wasn't there a murderer running around Hogwarts last time we spoke?"

Ron nodded. "So, er, turns out he's Harry's godfather and was actually hunting down the _real_ traitor, Peter Pettigrew, who was an animagus ... hiding as my pet rat, Scabbers."

Newt blinked. "Oh, my."

"Yeah," Ron laughed, though it didn't feel very funny. "It surprised me, too. Happened a few months ago, but Sirius gave me a new owl to make up for losing Scabbers, and Pig is much better than Scabbers was, I think."

"Oh?"

"Well, for one, he's not a backstabbing betrayer who answers to You-Know-Who," Ron said.

Newt snorted, his lips quirking upwards. "That's a low bar to vault. I suppose Pig did so splendidly."

"Oh, yes," Ron assured him. "Energetic little bugger, though, keeps flying 'bout my head."

Newt laughed fully then, ducking his head to avoid looking at Ron, who was grinning at Newt's merriment.

"So," Newt said, once he got himself under control. "I imagine that there's quite the story behind everything. Why don't you tell me?"

"Well," Ron said, shifting to a more comfortable position. "Let's just say none of what happened that night would have been possible had Hermione not been an overachieving bookworm..."

*

When Ron staggered into Newt’s presence several months after the filthy bar in who-knows-where it was with glossed-over eyes and a breath stuttering in his chest like it didn’t know if it wanted to cling to his lungs or flee up his throat.

Newt had submitted his book for publication and was back in London looking over the suggestions and edits, despairing at several of the comments.

“Ron?” Newt asked, already halfway out of his seat.

“Newt,” Ron choked.

“What happened?” Newt said, guiding Ron over to a nearby chair.

They were once more in the cramped little office Newt still called his own, and Ron sank into the familiar chair with barely a twitch, staring out at nothing.

“Ron?” Newt asked, biting back his natural flinch and touching the back of Ron’s hand lightly.

Ron blinked and breathed, a great shuddering breath which wracked his body and sounded almost like a sob.

“We won, Newt,” he spat out, as though he needed the words to get out, as if they coated his tongue with poison. “You-Know-W—Voldemort is dead.”

“That’s great news,” Newt said hesitantly, thinking back to the escaped Grindelwald, of the war in Europe.

Ron’s head jerked into a nod. “I suppose.”

“Why aren’t you happy, Ron?” Newt asked, desperately trying to figure out how to comfort his younger friend.”

Ron blinked. “What am I going to do now?”

The question hung between them, heavy and unavoidable.

“What do you want to do?” Newt finally asked.

Ron blinked again.

“What are your passions?” Newt elaborated, floundering for words.

“Harry’s going to be an Auror, no doubt,” Ron said, his fingers jittering against his knees. “Hermione … Merlin, she could do anything. Run for Minister. Make S.P.E.W. big. _Something._ They’re both going to go places.”

“You can, too,” Newt said.

Ron barked out a laugh. “Yeah? I’m not good at anything, Newt. I’m _nothing.”_

“That’s not true,” Newt said firmly, making an effort to catch and hold Ron’s eyes for a few moments.

Ron, startled at the unexpected eye contact, fell silent, his tapping fingers stilling.

New was unable to hold his gaze for long and dropped his eyes away, letting them skitter over his office. “You make life seem a bit brighter.”

Ron snorted. “I don’t do anything.”

“You make me laugh,” Newt said. “Doesn’t … doesn’t that count for something?”

Ron sighed. “How does making people laugh compare to keeping them safe and helping others?”

“It makes life worth living.” Newt’s lips twitched slightly. “It’s given me some happy memories. Moments that I look back on when I need to remember there’s always light in the darkness.”

Ron remained silent.

“It’s not much,” Newt said. “T-to you. But. Laughter and shared happiness … it can mean a great deal for a lot of people. It can give them hope. Hope is the very powerful thing.”

Ron’s hand strayed to his pocket, where a cylindrical bulge was visible. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

“Not everyone is destined for greatness like Harry,” Newt said. “Not everyone has the drive and determination like Hermione. But … but that doesn’t mean you are unimportant, Ron. That doesn’t mean you can’t help people, in your own way.”

Ron’s eyes were wrapped in redness, and a tear dribbled down his face. “I’m glad we’re friends, Newt.”

Newt bobbed his head. “Me, too.”

They shared a smile and Ron faded from Newt's time.

*

Ron Jumped for the rest of Newt’s life until one day, he didn’t move about in time, but simply in space.

He appeared at a funeral, draped in black with a large crowd of somber people.

“Hello, Ron,” a quiet voice said beside him. He started and turned his head to find Luna looking at him, a small, sad smile playing about her lips.

“Hi, Luna,” Ron said. “He—he’s dead, isn’t he?”

Luna nodded sadly, her large silver eyes straying over to the coffin. “He talked about you, in the end.”

“He was a good man,” Ron said.

Luna reached out and took his hand, as if they were little kids and not adults nearing forty. “You’ll see him again.”

It was a sliver of hope, one that Ron held onto. A little light in the darkness.

He bowed his head with Luna as the coffin burst into flames, orange dragons twisting through the air, red phoenixes gliding about the burning wood, and various smaller animations darting through the flame.

"You'll see him again," Luna murmured. "In the end, we'll all be together again."

She sent him a small, sad smile. One little splash of light to another, trying to compare to the raging fire dancing before them.

The world never celebrated Newt like they had Dumbledore or Harry, but Newt would always be one of Ron's heroes. He bowed his head and remembered.

“Goodbye,” Ron breathed to the smoke and ash.

*

Ronald Bilius Weasley was not the most popular of the Golden Trio. He wasn’t brave and kind like Harry, he wasn’t smart or determined like Hermione. Compared to them, he was nothing.

("That's not true," Newt told him once. "You've got patience, a brilliant mind, and an inherent understanding of magic and the wizarding world the other two simply don't have.")

("Fat lotta good that does me," Ron told him. The words stuck with him, however, and many years would pass before he began to see them as strengths.)

After the war, he tried to be more like Harry, joining the Aurors and saving people’s lives, but he felt stifled by Harry’s presence, muffled and cut off from who he was … who he _could be._

He quit a few years later.

Working with George at the Joke Shop was the best choice he could have made. Sure, it wasn’t as glamorous as working at the Ministry, sure Hermione had been disappointed in him at first … but he was so _happy_ making other people happy, and once she had seen that, she let him be and sent him smiles as he made his way to work.

George never recovered from losing Fred. Neither of them had. The Joke Shop expanded as more and more people came in, and Ron added a Quiet Place, an extension, a different room.

Sure, it was a bit of a weird add-on to the Joke Shop, but it had its own door and lived off of donations and people liked it. The war haunted them all, and Ron would see George slink off to the little side door when things got to much for him, when the sound of his own laugh reminded him too much of his brother, when the memories wouldn't stop tormenting him.

People could go into the Quiet Place and just … talk. They could talk to one another about their problems, about their hurts, about their dreams. Ron would listen, if they wanted to tell them, and he’d give them advice.

Most left the room feeling just a little bit lighter.

So, no, Ron was never magnificent. He was never the best at anything. He wasn’t particularly smart or brave or kind, he had little patience when it came to many things and he tended towards sullen moods and snappish words. This tempered, of course, with age, but Ron was who he was.

But he was kind, in his own way. He was patient when it mattered. He was smart enough to challenge his wife and encourage his kids, and over time his smiles grew wider, softer, and when he began to notice grey hairs mixed in the red and crinkles around Hermione's eyes, he realized that, for once, he was content, even happy, with his life.

He was not the sun. He was not the moon. He was a far, distant star, providing light to those who needed their darkness brightened just a bit.

Ron could live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> You might not know this, but my soul is actually fed by comments and kudos. Keep it alive, people, it's shrivling under the weight of reality.


End file.
